And pop! Goes the weasel
by lord yuuri
Summary: "Sometimes they reminisced about the good old days. Sometimes they even talked about the bad days and the mediocre days. But they never talked about it for too long, for reminiscing over the good, bad, and mediocre strikes a chord. And the chord never sounds sweet, oh no, the chord never sounds pleasant." – mentions of death and other dark topics.


America opened his eyes.

Canada was standing over him, informing him that it was time to go, get moving, hurry before England and Belarus get upset. America slowly raised a hand to his face to remove his glasses, only to remember that he lost his glasses long ago. He chuckled, internally scolding himself for forgetting.

Canada reminds him to get up again. His voice, even in this day and age, is still so timid, so soft. It is honestly admirable, how Canada hasn't changed. Honestly admirable, and honestly scary.

America got up and followed Canada out to the place they couldn't call home.

~•~

To say that it was hot was an understatement. It seemed as though the world was on fucking fire. Thankfully, they found water. A bit sludgy and it was thick going down their throats, but my God was it refreshing. It wasn't even that cold, but who gave a shit? This water was heaven to the desperate.

America watched as England, Belgium, Canada, Poland, and Belarus filled the dingy and dented water bottles. He wanted to help them – America was not some damn lazy freeloader, no sir – but he had stupidly allowed himself to pass out by not drinking often the very thing in front of him. Both Canada and England scolded him. Canada was softer, reminded him to never do such a silly thing again and how he scared everyone. England was the same way, but his concern came out with curses and concern laced with anger. He couldn't blame the English nation – he honestly couldn't. He just didn't want anyone worrying about him; that's not how it's supposed to work.

He didn't deserve to be worried about.

~•~

Belarus remained strong. Like her brother and sister, she does not give up easily.

But within the deeper parts of her consciousness that she would like to cut off, there was a small feeling that surrendering wouldn't be too bad. Small, but still there, still noticeable, and it scared her.

The thought of being weak _scared_ her.

~•~

Sometimes they reminisced about the good old days. The days of goofy antics and silly political showdowns, of wild times and calmer times. Sometimes they even talked about the bad days and the mediocre days.

But they never talked about it for too long, for reminiscing over the good, bad, and mediocre strikes a chord. And the chord never sounds sweet, oh no, the chord never sounds pleasant. It's a long, heart-wrenching pluck, followed by silence and awkwardness and regret and anger and the occasional tears.

Sometimes they reminisced about the good old days.

But only sometimes.

~•~

Canada taught everyone how to tap maple trees for their syrup. A small, simple, and now rare pleasure that they all voted to enjoy just this once. They deserved this, didn't they? Each of them looked to the sky, and took the responding silencing as an affirmative.

England accidently spilled his, and instead of cursing up a storm as everyone feared, he placed the small tin cup on the ground and cried. Silent tears morphed into loud wails, and no one but America could do anything but stare. No one expected this break from reality from him, or at least didn't expect it to happen too soon. It made them realize the futility of being strong.

Belarus excused herself.

America held the sobbing mess tightly, nodding slowly at the muffled apologies.

The brown, sticky liquid seeped into the grass.

~•~

Poland had another nightmare. No one bothered to comfort him this time, instead letting the cries of Lithuania's name echo in the starless night.

~•~

There are times where it felt like Canada was watching static. Black and white, a fuzzy noise, a fuzzy view of things. It felt like he was the only one watching it, hearing it, as if it was made just for him. And nothing would change: no color, no anything. Just static. The noises would always get louder and louder each time he stared at it, deafening, crawling up his spine and taking ahold of his thoughts until everything went blank. And it would suddenly stop. And Canada wouldn't feel like faking a smile anymore.

~•~

England knew fully well that Belarus will beat the shit out of him if she caught him doing this, but looking at America so fucking dirty bothered him too much. He didn't deserve this – none of them did, honestly, but England couldn't help but selfishly place the North American superpower over everyone else.

The British nation could see Hell calling out to him.

He poured half of the bottle's content onto America's blonde hair and scrubbed as gently as he could. America closed his eyes and leaned against England's chest.

Not a single word was said.

~•~

Poland didn't want to deal with this. He wasn't good with handling things like this, but he believed it to be his moral responsibility to tell them.

He went to England and Belgium first. He watched as Belgium handled everything tenderly, an influx of emotions crushing him as the European nation consoled the British superpower as he sobbed uncontrollably, asking _why, why didn't he come talk to us? Why didn't he come to me and America? Why, why, why?_ Poland gulped. He felt something wet running down his face. _Fuck_ , this was Lithuania all over again. He was on the verge of apologizing and giving the note to England when agonizing screams and pained yells were heard.

Belgium looked at Poland, saying nothing but eyes speaking volumes.

America found Canada.

~•~

Belarus had finally lost it.

Time was short for her, and everyone knew that this would happen eventually. It was simply a matter of _when, when_ will she realize that Russia and Ukraine won't be coming back for her, _when_ will she realize that they had found their bodies long ago, _when_ will she realize that she has lost everything.

They couldn't stop her from running off. She wouldn't listen – she wasn't capable of listening anymore. Belgium offered to go look for her; America and England weren't in the right state of mind, and Poland didn't need to be exposed to any more trauma. None of them really did, but Belgium understood the cruelties of life.

She didn't want them, but she acknowledged them.

England, America, and Poland said nothing as Belgium returned the next day with a sad look and a lifeless body in her arms.

~•~

What was a messily-glued together quartet became a shattered trio. They didn't even realize how sick she was until the last moment.

It took them nearly all day to dig a grave.

~•~

England spilled over the edge of panicking.

Poland tried to calm him down ("England, England, he's, like, somewhere.") but the Brit's mind was beginning to cloud out all reassurances. His heart couldn't take it. His mind couldn't take. _He_ couldn't take it. England needed America – he couldn't survive without him. That nation was his last source of motivation and if he is –

No. No, no, no, no, fuck no. He is not dead. America isn't dead. England won't allow that to happen. He can't be, he just can't be. Please God, don't let him be dead, please please _please_ –

The sound of footsteps hit their ears. The sound of hope hit their hearts. They both turned quickly to see the blonde carrying a jug of water. His blue eyes immediately saw the glistening green ones.

"I'm sorry. I noticed we were running out of…I'm sorry."

England didn't scream. He didn't even cry. He fell to his knees and let out a sigh of relief.

~•~

"Do you think Poland is with Lithuania?" America asked, averting his gaze from the blood and bits of Poland that decorated the grimy wall.

"Maybe," England responded, picking up the gun. He emptied the weapon of its bullets and threw it to the side. "Lithuania will chastise him for the mess he has made."

~•~

America gave England his share of the food yet again.

This time, England didn't feel like yelling.

~•~

America placed his lips against England's cold ones. It was not romantic nor platonic, he told himself – he just wanted to, alright? Just wanted to make sure. The pale skin and limp body were clear indicators, but he needed to be certain. He didn't want to be like Belarus – England was dead. Reality fucking hated him, the world went to shit, and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland died in his arms.

Tears crashed upon a green military outfit.

America lied to himself – it _was_ romantic.

~•~

The sun, for once, did not insist to cook him like bacon. America allowed himself to lie upon the greenest field ever, the most aesthetically pleasing piece of nature he has seen in a long time. England would have fucking had a field day with this. This was his kind of thing, just enjoying the sounds of a cool breeze, the smell of the flowers.

This would've been _their_ thing.

He was exhausted. Exhausted and hungry and _lost_ and _lonely_ and _broken_ and – and just nothing. Everything felt so heavy and yet so light.

America closed his eyes.


End file.
